


Istaril

by Kalendeer



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, I have no idea where this is going, Nerdanel follows the boys to Middle Earth, all hail the high king istaril, more characters and tags to be added later, the silm seriously lacks queens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-05-23 10:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14932416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalendeer/pseuds/Kalendeer
Summary: She does not tell him that she approves, because she does not.She does not tell him that she will help with revenge, because she does not know yet if she should.But she tells him that she will follow him anywhere.For one moment the anger recedes, and all she can read into his eyes is pain, loss and the uncertainty of one who knows the destination but not the way, and fear, so much fear he would drown; she knows she made the right choice.





	1. The Good Wife

Nerdanel is appalled when she meets Fëanaro for the first time after his father's death; appalled by the sickness in his eyes, his body tensed as a bow, the harshness of his speech. She is appalled by his plans and his Oath. She considers begging him to leave the twins, but the moment she approaches him is the moment she knows he will refuse anything but the clearest vows of support.

She does not tell him that she approves, because she does not.

She does not tell him that she will help with revenge, because she does not know yet if she should.

But she tells him that she will follow him anywhere.

For one moment the anger recedes, and all she can read into his eyes is pain, loss and the uncertainty of one who knows the destination but not the way, and fear, so much fear he would drown; she knows she made the right choice.

 

***

 

She is there when Fëanaro understands the walk north will kill them if they keep going without boats. For the first time since his exile, she takes his hand and holds him until the council ends. She feels him trembling with rage when Nolofinwë accuses him of lack of foresight.

She knows he hurts because he agrees with his half-brother, even if he will never admit his fault, even when she tells him he couldn't have known.

 

***

 

She goes with her husband and her sons to talk with Olwë and despairs. She is unable to keep Fëanaro from insulting the king, unable to convince the Teleri to help. Her disquiet grows when her husband storms out, because she knows Nolofinwë will be on his back again and Fëanaro has no patience left for his reproaches.

Fëanaro decides to reenter the city in arms. He reassures her that the Teleri will not dare to oppose his fully armored guards. She does not believe him.

She does not say "I told you so" when they hear the first fight break out. She does not follow Fëanaro when he rushes forward, because he knows Curufinwë with his young wife and Carnistir are supposed to be where the clamor started. She calls for those around her to still their weapons, but there are people shouting everywhere and no one knows where the King is anymore, and soon blood is running down the streets.

She does not unsheathe her sword, but she does raise her shield above their wounded, the arrows of the Teleri raining on the wood and bronze with loud "thuds". They are pushed back and back and back until they can go no further, lest they fall into the water, when the trumpets of Findekano's host blow their song of anger.

She finds her husband right after Nolofinwë does. Fëanaro is standing on the deck of Olwë's royal ship, standing proud and expressionless and acting like he is unmoved by the floating corpses around his prize, and Nerdanel wonders how long he will stand Nolofinwë's accusations before he takes his sword out and tests its sharpness against his brother's neck. She steps between the two of them and convinces Nolofinwë to go care for Findekano.

She has to unclench Fëanaro's fingers from the hilt of his sword, finger by finger, as gentle as a lover. He watches her in silence when she washes the blood off his hands, knowing they will never really erase any of it, and breaks into her arms once the last drop is gone, asking how anyone can believe he would do _something like this_ on purpose.

 

***

 

She almost turns back when Mandos states their Doom. She could take the twins and Carnistir with her, bring them back home with Arafinwë.

Then she looks at Fëanaro, at the children she will never persuade to turn back and decides she cannot let them go.

 

***

 

She goes to Nolofinwë in secret to ask if the rumors are true, if he allows those closest to him to call him Finwë Nolofinwë. She warns him, because he does not contradict her, that he is going too far.

Once again her diplomacy fails. She wonders why everyone calls her Nerdanel the Wise if they do not intend to listen.

She does not tell Fëanaro right away. She waits for a good, for the best moment, but he flies into a rage anyway and throws his brother's followers off his boats, stating that if Nolofinwë has nothing to do with Alqualondë, then he has no business on their stolen ships either.

 

***

 

There are moments, when they are alone together, when he looks like his old self. On the good nights he works fast and well, solving problems with great speed and efficiency, pushing everyone forward with restless determination, smiles and words that carry their sons and their people toward Middle Earth.

Then there are the bad nights.

Nights when he sees enemies everywhere. Nights when he cannot sleep. Nights when he scratches his arms when he thinks no one sees and his nails dig into his skin. Nights filled with nightmares and whispers. Nights when he clings to her like a drowning man, weeping and shaking, assailed by memories of his father and so many doubts she wonders how he can still rise from his bed.

But he does. Every night he stands, sometimes barely able to hide the madness creeping at the edge of his mind, sometimes blazing bright.

She manages to convince him, during a good night, to accept the children of Arafinwë back on the ships .

 

***

 

She does not succeed in convincing him to send back the ship.

They decided to teach Nolofinwë a lesson and wait before they sent back the ship. Wait for a good night, wait for Fëanaro to find the strength to be more forgiving.

He never does.

Carnistir unwillingly plants the idea. He throws one of those angry jokes of his, yelling in the middle of a tensed council with the children of Arafinwë that if those damned boats went in flames, everyone’s problems would be solved.

Carnistir does not know Fëanaro did not have any good night this week. He forgets his outburst as quickly as it came; his father does not, and Nerdanel sees the suggestion creeping into him.

If those damned boats went in flames, Nolofinwë would leave him alone. If those damned boats went in flames, Fëanaro would not have to choose anyone for the perilous travel back to Araman. He would not have to worry about the state of his bridgehead while some of his fighters are away.

For the first time since his exile, Nerdanel coaxes her husband back into her bed, not to sleep but to reignite the old passion; to reignite his old self, his old bravery, to slow his desperate flight forward long enough for him to send the boats. She does not admit to herself that she is tired, impossibly tired; that she needs the strength he used to give her, the light of his worship, the music of his soul. Their strong bodies melt, his long hands clinging to her wide shoulders, hair of mahogany mixing with his raven black. They fall asleep entwined together and she believes she may bring the good nights back.

She is awakened by the roar of flames and the cracking of wood, coming out of their tent covered in a single blanket that hardly hides anything. She does not have to see his eyes to know how mistaken she was; she can hear the wrongness in his voice, _feel_ the agony of his spirit, the raving anger and the suffocating fear. The brush of dark whispers makes her skin crawl.

His words are harsh and full of confidence; he boasts about the mindless destruction to any who will hear him, his face inflamed by the wild glow. She watches him from afar, unmoving as one of her marble statues, the wind twisting the fabric around her hips and legs.

When he finally joins her, what hurts her the most is not that he did not listen: it is the sheer relief she can read in his eyes.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed that, please tell me what you think!
> 
> Who is going to die in this verse? What is going to change because of Nerdanel? Will Fëanor get trampled by Balrogs?


	2. High Hopes

Fëanaro thought he would get rid of all opposition with the fire at Losgar. The next nights prove him wrong. Nolofinwë’s absence merely creates a vacuum Artanis is happy to fill with criticism and obvious scorn. Nolofinwë would have been more subtle and more efficient, but Fëanaro always had a soft spot for his niece. Her barbs hurt more than they should.

All he has now are bad nights and worst nights.

Tonight is a bad night. Tonight she can still reach him. He will not sleep, but he can rest, his head on her knees and her fingers combing through his hair giving him some solace. He whispers how sorry he is that he keeps her up.

Nerdanel answers that she does not mind; at least, tonight, he can hear her and not struggle alone.

 

***

There are moments when Nerdanel and her oldest children are not enough to hide the growing cracks.

They begin to show in full when Fëanaro’s memory fails him in the middle of a council with the Arafinwëans, his sleep deprived spirit unable to keep up. Artanis is quick as ever to jump on his momentary weakness. He defends himself with nearly hysterical aggressiveness that ends only when Carnistir and Angarato start a fist fight that terminates the meeting.

They grow wider when one of the Ambarussa notices the bite mark on his left wrist, deep enough to draw blood; last night was one of the worst ones and Nerdanel did not wake until the smell of blood had her grab his arm and hold him until the urge to hurt himself went away. The boy tries to seize his father’s hand to take a look, but Fëanaro rips it away from the innocent gesture and slaps him hard to enough to send him to the ground, eyes so wide the silver is encircled with bloodshot white.

They are standing in the open, and there are people watching.

She hears Fëanaro leave while she picks Ambarussa from the ground. He struggles not to cry until they reach the safe space of his tent and the pretense of adulthood crumbles. She wishes she could reassure him, but Nerdanel knows she can offer nothing but empty words, caresses and lies: how do you tell your son that he is not at fault and his father is merely losing his mind?

She finds Fëanaro fighting with Maitimo in their tent. She can see her husband’s hands trembling in Maitimo’s, the fresh, angry marks on the side of his neck, the strain in their son’s forearms as he struggles to keep his exhausted father in place. Her heart skips a beat because they did not want their children to see how Fëanaro is, and it is now painfully obvious in Fëanaro’s cracking voice that the father who soothed Maitimo’s secret fears, the father who taught him his letters and how to walk with confidence, the father who sang lullabies and laughed with him and healed his scraped knees is gone. Maitimo should not be the one to hear Fëanaro strangle himself with sobs and the hysterical affirmation that _he did not do it_ , that _he would never hurt his child_ , that _they did not see what he saw_ , that _he did not hit his son because he cannot hurt his children_. Maitimo should not be the one who decides to go along with Fëanaro delusions and tell him that he made a mistake, that Fëanaro is right and the incident did not occur, because he suddenly understands that his father will _break_ if he manages to process what just happened.

Nerdanel slips between them, gently disengaging Fëanaro from their son. She feels the tremors of his body; she meets and holds his gaze, enfolding him in an embrace stronger than Maitimo would dare after the crisis. Fëanaro buries his tears in the crook of her neck and nods, wordless, when she asks if he wants Maitimo to brew some Lorien tea.

She holds him in her arms, moving her hand across his back in slow circles. She cannot remember a single occurrence of Fëanaro ingesting sleeping draughts. He was always deeply suspicious of Irmo’s Flowers, or feeling like it was cheating somehow. He keeps the cup in his hands for a long time once Maitimo hands it to him. She promises she will wake him if they need him, because she knows his secret fear that He will come the moment he closes his eyes.

He falls asleep in her arms, Maitimo watching silently, his spirit bleeding from the sight and barely repressed anger. He feels he should have been told; he feels he is old enough, and that as his father’s heir he could have lessened his burden, if only they had told him.

She wishes she could follow him and explain, but Nerdanel dares not let go of Fëanaro, not now that he finally sleeps.

 

***

 

They never discuss the new arrangements, but Maitimo presides over the councils more often than not.  He says that his father is working on _things_ , and if his father was not Fëanaro it would sound like empty promises. The truth is that after the worst nights, Fëanaro cannot find the courage to go out anymore; after the bad nights he does, going through their settlement at Lake Mithrim acting like nothing is amiss. It is a paltry illusion, one that cannot last.

And then the attack comes.

Nerdanel wishes he wouldn’t fight. He had three worst nights in a row and Irmo’s Flowers are just starting to put him to sleep when the alarm is raised. He sighs and leaves their bed, asking her help to don his armor.  He is the king, he says; he will fight to defend his people. They knew this night would come and he will not cower under the excuse of sickness.

She does not find the words to tell him to come back to her, so she kisses him and tells him she will be following him as soon as she puts her own armor on. Their tent feels devoid of all warmth once he is gone; her fingers tremble on the straps of her pauldrons.

The first attack is easily pushed back. She finds Fëanaro standing straight and proud on his horse, wide awake and full of energy, giving orders for the pursuit. He names her the regent of the settlement while he and his heir are away, his voice strong and full of mirth, the Fëanaro of old reignited by the fight; yet she can also read, in his eyes, the wrongness of Tirion and Losgar; the feeling that her husband is fleeing forward on a path unknown. Nerdanel goes to him and pulls at his arm until he is leaning on the neck of his horse, his and her lips so close their breath mingle. She takes the glove off his right hand, bringing the warm palm to her cheek.

She tells him to _feel_ and opens her spirit, letting his connect with her senses and her body, telling him with no words what she wishes she could have told earlier, if only she had found the right moment, if only she had been surer. He withdraws his fingers, his fire, and watches her with eyes both amazed and horrified; then the mask of the king slips on his face, uneasily. He straightens on his horse.

“Come back,” Nerdanel orders. _Be careful_ , she means to say; _live, I beg of you_.

He rides into the darkness and all she can think about is Finwë.

 

***

 

The battle lasts for nine days, but Fëanaro does no come back until twice this time.

She thinks him dead, at first, when their sons bring him back to Mithrim. They stripped his armor from him and cleaned his wounds as well as they could, but nothing can hide the extent of his injuries; injuries that, the healers say, should have killed him already.

But Fëanaro does not die.

Macalaurë tells her he was still standing when they came to his aid, though his will alone kept him from collapsing. They drove the fire demons off and then he fell limp in Curufinwë’s arms, a single word on his lips that would come back to haunt them.

 _Arestel_.

Macalaurë’s way of grieving is to tell stories, and he tells this one well. He tells of Fëanaro collapsing without another word, sparing no strength for anger or revenge or anything that was not his own survival; he tells of the desperate struggle they all felt, like his spirit was hanging from a cliff by the tip of its finger but still holding.

 _Arestel_ , he would say each and every time he briefly regained consciousness. _High hope_ , and hope he gave to them all, hope that he would survive and lead them to battle again, hope that they will scourge Morgoth out of these lands and the Noldor will come out victorious. Macalaurë’s voice entrances the camp and, in the light of Fëanaro’s first great victory in Beleriand, renews the trust in their High King.

It is a beautiful story, but Nerdanel knows it is false, because Macalaurë is missing the crucial piece of the puzzle that explains why Fëanaro will not die. Fëanaro would have died for anger and revenge and victory, but he would not have _lived_ for them.

She sits by his side and asks for some time alone with him. She caresses his brow, feeling the heat of fever, then lays her hand on his heart, willing him to hear her voice wherever he is.

“Fight, my love,” she orders, and she wishes, she wishes so hard she had strength to spare to lend to him.

“Do not let your Arestel be born without you. _Fight_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, please tell me what you think!
> 
> Will Maedhros get captured anyway? Will Fëanor survive?


	3. The last nights of the Age

 

 

Maitimo will not admit things are easier for him now that his father is dying, but the truth is that it _is_ now that no one expects his father to rule or even come out of his newly constructed house.

Nerdanel’s eldest son loses himself in his regency so he does not have to think that Fëanaro may stop breathing at any moment, so he does not have to see that his father sleeps with his eyes closed. She sees each of her children try to find his own way to deal with the situation. Macalaurë devotes all his singing power to healing songs he barely mastered in Valinor while Tyelkormo moves to become his eldest’s staunchest lieutenant. She wishes the twins would spend less time scouting and is relieved they are, at least, usually going with Angarato and Aikanaro. Carnistir replaces Curufinwë in the forge with grim determination.

Curufinwë worries her the most. She has to pull him away from his father to keep him from giving too much through the bond of likeness they always shared, her heart breaking every time she makes him leave Fëanaro’s side, knowing her husband may drift away without this anchor, but sure that he would never have allowed her to sacrifice any of their sons for his sake.

She feels useless.

Useless to Maitimo, who takes her advices without grace because she hid his father’s state and the trust between them is damaged. Useless to Fëanaro, to whom she can give no strength, not with Arestel to nurture in her belly. Everything Nerdanel does is not enough; it is even less than she could have achieved before the draining pregnancy. Fëanaro’s conscious moments are nothing but mere seconds of fluttering lids and twitching fingers, his lips moving almost silently to form the name of his unborn daughter.

 

***

 

Morgoth’s messenger reaches them at the beginning of the sixth month of her pregnancy with greetings for the High King Fëanaro Curufinwë, suing for peace and offering a Silmaril as a gesture of good will. All agree that the trap is obvious, but the council still fractures. Nerdanel and Findarato argues strongly for a clear and definite _no_ , for the least dangerous path, while Maitimo and Angarato advocate for a trap of their own. In the end, they default to Maitimo’s choice because it is untold but understood that he is king.

The two princes leave when the stars shine the strongest. Angarato kisses his son good bye, his standard of gold and green hanging low from lack of wind; Maitimo hugs his mother, promising his father will awake with the tale of his victory; but when Nerdanel watches him leave, gaze trapped by the star of silver embroidered on black velvet, she cannot ignore the grip of foreshadowing.

 

***

 

Morgoth sends a single elf to bear his next message; Maitimo’s standard bearer, tongue and ears cut away, carrying the princes’ crowns wrapped in the bloodstained standards. The letter is penned in elegant twengar letters, stating Morgoth’s new terms: that the Houses of Arafinwë and Fëanaro should renounce the Silmarili and leave northern Beleriand, lest Melkor puts to death his prisoners.

There is no fracture this time. Things could have been different, perhaps, had Nolofinwë been here instead of Findarato; if Macalaurë had not exhausted himself with Songs of healing the night before. Nerdanel hears herself say _no_. She feels drained, rusted to the core, but in that moment the single word rings so clear and strong that no one argues against it.

No one argues, either, when she takes the quill to write that the Houses of the Noldor will not bend, will not run, will not surrender. Because Nerdanel does not believe anything Morgoth says; because she does not believe they can run far enough to escape him.

Because Fëanaro would not survive the flight.

So she writes. She writes that she declines. She cried too much already to shed tears for her eldest son, her beloved Maitimo. Later, she will pray to Nienna and Mandos and Aulë and any Vala who would listen to grand her son peace and protection, but now she is steel incarnate.

Morgoth’s answer is not slow to come. Barely a week after Nerdanel’s letter, imprinted with Fëanaro’s signet, a herald presents himself with a strong escort, claiming to negotiate with the House of Arafinwë. Findarato refuses to receive him.

Findarato still refuses when they bring Angarato forward, near enough for their sharp eyesight to recognize him; far enough to ensure they cannot reach him fast enough.

Findarato still refuses when they nail his brother to a cross.

Their people watch from the palisade of their camp, the Houses of green and gold and black and silver assembled as one. They watch as Aikanaro, who is a better archer than his eldest, readies his great bow.

They watch when Aikanaro misses his target, not once but thrice, arms trembling and eyes full of tears, until Tyelkormo takes the bow out of his hands and fires the arrow that ends Angarato’s life.

 

***

 

A scouting party led by Tyelkormo and Aikanaro retrives Angarato’s defiled body and slaughters the orcs a few hours later.

The nights of negotiation are over, and the nights of Nerdanel’s regency begin.

 

***

 

Nerdanel is through the seventh month of her pregnancy when Fëanaro regains consciousness in full. For one small, fleeting moment, the joy of meeting his silver gaze overrides the pain of Maitimo’s demise. He can barely move his hand to brush at her belly, but he is _awake_ at least.

 

***

 

She hears one of the oldest healers say he looks too much like his mother, that he is not _saved_ yet; that he still has to survive the news of Maitimo’s death.

Fëanaro’s voice cracks from lack of use, toneless with exhaustion, when he asks to see his sons.

It is easier to lie and say Maitimo left for Doriath with Findarato than to tell him the truth.

 

***

 

The lie cannot hold for long once Findarato comes back, at the end of the eight month.

She has Curufinwë sit by his father before she tells, the likeness between the two highlighting how fragile Fëanaro looks now, thin and pale and _translucent_ , wrapped in his son’s arms like he is made of glass.  The wounds opens in his spirit before she even opens her mouth because it so _obvious_ they have something terrible to tell him, and Curufinwë’s finger close around his hand but it is not _enough_.

“Who?”

“Nelyo,” she says, and for the first time since her son’s death, Nerdanel feels the tears streaming down her cheeks.

In another life, he would have screamed. He would have called for revenge, trembled with body wracking sobs and grabbed his sword; he would have done something, anything to exteriorize those feelings he always felt too hard.

Now, he stays silent and still.

“I am sorry,” he whispers. Still, too still, the wound still open but his spirit devoid of any reaction to the bleeding. “I am so tired.”

 _He looks too much like Miriel_ , they said, and Nerdanel wonders if Miriel too was indifferent to her own pain in the end.

Curufinwë hugs his father closer and kisses his brow, repeating that it is alright, that he will get better, that Morgoth will pay for this, that they will work together again like they used to, that he is _alive_. He whispers the encouraging words until Fëanaro slips back into slumber, and Nerdanel cannot help but think it does more good to the son than to his father.

 

***

 

Arestel is the only child Nerdanel births without Fëanaro by her side.

The girl inherited her reddish hair, Carnistir’s complexion and shrieking habits, along with Macalaurë’s powerful lungs. Nerdanel is worried that she is small and dull eyed. There is a consensus among the healer that the little princess is healthy, and more akin to one of the grey elves because she was conceived and born far from the Light of the Trees; she shouldn’t worry, they say, and so she tries not to.

Fëanaro is awake when she brings their child to him, half sitting thanks to the pillows behind his back. He says nothing, but his eyes follow the bundle in her arms, and so she wants to believe he cares.

“Do you want to hold her?” Nerdanel asks.

His fingers contract on the blanket. His gaze suddenly becomes unfocused, then darts between his sons, and Nerdanel wonders if she should not have kept them outside. The six of them assembled in the small chamber or hovering at the door are overwhelming enough for her; perhaps it is too much for Fëanaro.

She understands that he would decline if he did not feel watched.

“Of course he wants to,” Curufinwë the younger states. The elder throws him an alarmed but sedate stare, taking a sharp intake of breath that sounds like the beginning of some nervous reaction, but Curufinwë settles by him in the bed, extending his arms toward Nerdanel, until she understands what he means to do and carefully deposits Arestel against her father’s chest, Curufinwë’s arms wrapping them in an embrace to support the weight. Fëanaro fidgets for a few seconds before he finds a more comfortable position, then goes still, his breath coming out calmer once it becomes clear that Curufinwë will not let him drop the baby.

His gaze locks with his daughter's. For a long time they stay like this, discovering each other, until Fëanaro’s eyes fill with tears and the emotions finally reach his eyes, making him look _alive_ at least, his lips curving into a weak smile.

And then, when the first tear slips from his jaw to wet his daughter’s brow, a great cry is heard from the camp; of surprise first and wonder next, and a light golden and warm fills their chamber from the western window.

With Arestel came the first sunrise, and with them the beginning of a new age.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, please tell me what you think!
> 
> Fingolfin will be coming with the sun, and this time Fëanor is still alive... what do you think will happen?


	4. Disconnected

The Sun has been up for one month when Nerdanel receives strange reports from Angarato’s scouts. It takes them two days to clarify that the crowd coming from the West is Nolofinwë’s host, but troubles erupt as soon as the news is broken in council.

Artanis says it may be relevant to consider a High King who is neither deranged nor dying now that Nolofinwë is back.

That council does not end well.

***

  
They ultimately settle for Findarato and Macalaurë as envoys. Nerdanel would have liked to go herself, but she is still breastfeeding Arestel and cannot leave the camp. She wishes Fëanaro would recover faster, because she dreads the first meeting between her husband and his brother if Fëanaro cannot stand for more than two minutes.

She tries not to be unnerved by his lack of strength. He is feeling well enough now to work two hours in the morning and two more during the afternoon, helping her with book-keeping and reports, but Fëanaro still has not gone out to speak to his people. She tries not to be unnerved every time Arestel starts to shriek and he merely watches the crib with indifferent passivity, waiting for her or one of their sons to soothe the child back to sleep. She _tries_ not to resent him when she wakes earlier than the Sun knowing he will not wake up until the tenth hour, or when she crawls back to bed by his side, knowing he has been asleep for hours already.

He is sick. He is not at fault.

She tells him Nolofinwë crossed the sea after all. Fëanaro stops writing and his gaze becomes unfocused. She asks if he wants her to help him write a letter for his brother.

“Why?” he says without malice, without anger, without _anything_.

“To explain yourself.” The lack of expression annoys her. “To ask for forgiveness about the boats and offer compensation.”

“I have work to do.” As if stewardship reports were more important than mending the rift. He avoids her eyes and she knows he will claim he is tired and retreat to his bed if she pushes him.

So she writes the letter herself, trying to use the words Fëanaro may have used, wishing for the full duration of it that Fëanaro will join her at some point.

He does not, because making a report that could easily have been dealt with by Tyelko or any clerk is more important than dealing with Nolofinwë.

So Nerdanel forcefully puts one of their best sheets of paper under his nose with the inkwell and goose feather and orders him to write down what she dictates, and it breaks her heart that he mindlessly obeys, copies the words and signs the letter as if it was his, offering no amendment of his own and looking like he just wants to be rid of some unimportant boring chore.

 

***

“We have to talk about your husband,” Findarato says as soon as he comes back. Because the Ice did not quell Nolofinwë’s desire to wear a higher crown and the matter of the High King cannot rest any longer. “Will Fëanaro face him? Will he fight for the kingship?”

Findarato is honest; he will not force his House’s hand, not for the sake of Fëanaro, and his House would chose Nolofinwë. Maitimo would have been the heir of reconciliation, they both think, far more than Macalaurë who lacks the prestige of his elder.

“If it comes to this,” Nerdanel tells him, “ _you_ would have my support.”

“But I do not want to be High King,” Findarato says, and she knows he is not talking out of false modesty.

“I know. This is why I would support you.”

 

***

 

Fëanaro’s letter is answered tersely by Nolofinwë’s announcement that he will visit his brother officially in three days.

Their sons rage and pace like worried beasts; Fëanaro’s eyes are unfocused, until at least he declares flatly that he will wear his father’s crown and mantle.

They spend the next three days working on the protocol of the meeting and Fëanaro’s speech. He decides to wear the new armor Curufinwë crafted from his old, burnt one, because Finwë always had broader shoulders than he, and now that he is sick, the mantle looks far too wide for him.

 

***

  
He does not make it to the door before he buckles, taken down by a burning pain that brings tears to his eyes and sucks the strength from his legs, radiating from the great wound inflicted by a Balrog’s whip.

Arestel starts to cry from the chamber, and it is like her screams drain the last of Fëanaro’s strength.

“This is how it ends, then,” he whispers in defeat, “my House shall be dispossessed because I cannot even _walk_.”

“Kano should go,” Tyelkormo offers, “or Curvo.”

“As if Nolofinwë would even talk to _Curvo_!”

“He worked on the speech, he _knows_ it!”

“A fifth son…”

“Well Kano then…”

“Nolofinwë will feel insulted…”

“As if Nolofinwë deserves…”

 

Nerdanel watches her sons quarrel, and what hurts the most is not that they tear at each other like hounds, but that their father looks utterly unable to stop them.

“Enough!” she thunders; never the one to scream and raise her voice, today she silences them easily. “Moryo, please go calm Arestel. Tyelko, Curvo, help your father. Kano, tell Findarato that we will be slightly late.”

She does not ask for permission. She has Curvo take away the armor to put on her shoulders; the crown and mantle she takes herself, and orders that her son should braid her hair like he did his father’s, adorning her with the braids of Finwë Noldoran.

Because she, too, knows the speech; even if it never occurred to anyone that _she_ could face Nolofinwë in her husband’s stead.

 

***

The heralds have not been warned to expect anyone else but Fëanaro, and so it is the name of _Fëanaro Curufinwë Noldoran_ that they clamor when she enters the hall of wood and earth. She ignores the frown on Nolofinwë’s face when he sees _Her_ instead of _Him_ wearing the eight-pointed star on her breast and Finwë’s mantle of kingship on her shoulders. She ignores the whispers when she climbs the five steps leading to the stage.

She ignores them still when she sits on Fëanaro’s throne, looking down at her brother-in-law.

“The High King Fëanaro Curufinwë welcomes you in Beleriand. We offer our condolences for the death of Prince Aracano, Princess Elenwë, and the countless others who perished on the Ice; we are united in grief, brother, for the ones who fell during this first battle against Morgoth. May his whispers never again set us apart, and all of us rejoice in the victory we achieved, for you are here at last.”

And to Nolofinwë alone, she whispers through the stare they share: _I warned you. You would not listen, and now the three Houses weep. Will you help me mend this chasm, Ô Wise-Finwë, in memory of my son and yours?_

“A great _victory_ indeed,” Nolofinwë answers, slowly, the words barely pushing past anger. He came to confront his brother, and the revenge has been denied to him by one who stands blameless. “My condolences for the death of Prince Nelyafinwë and Prince Angarato.”

“The High King offered his aid. State your needs, brother, and we shall do our best to support your people and help them settle with us.” She stresses the last two words, because she dislikes the idea of the Noldor standing on both sides of the Lake, ready to be picked by whatever attack Morgoth may prepare. “The Houses of Fëanaro and Arafinwë welcomes you into the houses we built and those soon to be erected. The wounded, women and children, especially, should rest as comfortably as possible. It is a great relief to us that your wise advices shall be heard again in the King’s Council.”

“I will consider your offers,” he says, watching closely Aikanara and Artanis, searching for proofs of their support for his half-brother, or lack thereof. “Please, convey my best wishes for recovery to Fëanaro. I was pained to hear he was _unwell_.”

Nerdanel searches his eyes to appraise his honesty, but Nolofinwë’s voice precedes her, sounding more worried through mind-speech than he would allow himself aloud.

_Was he hurt so badly?_

If she was Fëanaro, she would see the attempt to find weaknesses and weapons; she does not doubt Nolofinwë can find many ways to use his brother’s frailty to his advantage. But she is Nerdanel, and she also perceives the genuine worry, the part of Nolofinwë that still _cares_. She refuses to ponder which side of him is the strongest; she wants to believe that the caring pieces of Nolofinwë are more important than the manipulative ones.

_Yes. When you see him, you should tell him that you worry._

_So he can feel insulted?_

_So he can know that you_ care _. You two should try to see the best in one another._

_Was he worried for us?_

_If my husband felt nothing for you, Nolofinwë, your lack of support would not have hurt him as it did. Do not forget it was Morgoth who set you against each other. We have allowed his lies to poison you both for too long. All I ask from you is_ kindness _._

_Such a gentle request. If it was that simple…_

_But it_ is _, Nolofinwë. It_ is _that simple, if we try hard enough._

***

It is not that simple.

Because Fëanaro does not rise from his chair when Nolofinwë enters and will not say that he cannot; because he looks like he does not care about anything his brother has to say; because he never looks at him in the eyes, his gaze lost somewhere watching nothing.

Because Nerdanel is barely starting to understand Fëanaro’s sickness, and Nolofinwë knows nothing of it.

It is too soon, Nerdanel thinks when Nolofinwë starts to shout, demanding an explanation about the ships.

“I do not know,” Fëanaro answers flatly. “I do not know why I did it.”

“You do not know?” Nolofinwë explodes. “You do not know why you ordered your people to torch those ships? Why you set them aflame yourself? Why you abandoned your subject? What kind of joke is this?”

“I am sorry.” But Fëanaro does not sounds sorry. “I am –“ Tired, Nerdanel expects. “ – disconnected. I wish I could explain.”

She stops Nolofinwë before his fist connects with Fëanaro’s face; she takes the blow in the shoulder instead and almost falls on the desk. She hears more than she sees Fëanaro try to stand, only to fall back with his hand clutching his stomach, the colors draining from his face.

And then, as if the situation was not awkward enough, Arestel starts to cry in the adjacent room, her wails startling Fëanaro as if something stung him.

“Can I leave you two?”

Nolofinwë gives her a look that makes her feel like she is Indis scowling him from pulling at Lalwendë’s hair; it seems, at least, that Fëanaro’s physical pain is easier to understand than his weird behavior, and is sufficient to partly deflate Nolofinwë’s anger and instigate some sympathy.

She comes back with Arestel once the child is calm enough. Fëanaro is lying on his bed, left hand absently clutching on his shirt above the scar, Nolofinwë sitting at the edge of the mattress. She hears them speaking softly, talking to each other at least.

Holding Arestel against her chest, the child sucking on her breast, Nerdanel smiles softly.

Because after everything, there is still hope.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay that was painful in the end lol. I had no idea writing Fingolfin and Fëanor meeting again would be so hard in this fic, but it was, actually, the first part of Istaril I had problems with.
> 
> Reviews are very much appreciated! I am curious about your theories: how do you think the story is going to change? Will Maedhros get rescued? Is Fingolfin going to be High King or not? According to YOU, who should be the next High King if Fëanor does not recover?


	5. Things a mother knows

“Nolofinwë wants to attack Angband,” Nerdanels says, and she hopes her husband will react, because he tried that before and almost died, and Maitimo tried and… that did not end well either. “I would appreciate your help in changing his mind.”

Their gaze cross on the shine of Finwë’s crown. It hurts to think the woven lines of silver and gold has not sat on raven hair for months now. Nerdanel wonders if Fëanaro’s thoughts are the same as hers: that Finwë himself was unable to curve Nolofinwë’s stubbornness. She will need support from all sides to have him change his mind. There was a time when she would have known, instantly, how Fëanaro felt about this, a time before the strife and Formenos.

“Tell him he has my blessings.”

She asks if he jokes, but he looks serious enough and _he_ is the High King, not her, and if it occurs to Nerdanel that she could lie, she banishes the thought as quickly as it came.

 

***

 

She does not know exactly why, but she decides to follow Nolofinwë to Angband after it has been decided that Tyelkormo and Aikanaro would go to share their knowledge of the land and represent their House. Fëanaro is obviously unhappy, wondering who will take care of Arestel in her absence; she answers her daughter has five brothers, a father and a goat to provide milk, then rolls to the other side of the bed.

***

Nolofinwë’s march across the mountains and the plain is unhindered, as if there was not a single orc left in Beleriand. Their army stop on the scorched hill of Fëanaro’s last stand to sing the growth of grass and trees, erasing the King’s defeat with flowers, erecting cairns of stones over the remains of his fallen guards and leaving behind a memorial of colors and life.

 

***

The army slows under the shadow of Angband. The path becomes narrow and treacherous, the earth red as dried blood, the air stale; but the only noises are their own, and soon they climb high enough to see the black gates of the fortress.

Nerdanel does not need to ask Nolofinwë’s opinion to know that, like her, he has no hope of breaching those doors. Neither swords nor valor will suffice, but craft may, so Nerdanel takes notes of the alloys that may have been used, spotting parts of the door that, from the rust, may be pure iron. She sketches the design and dimensions while Nolofinwë orders all trumpets to be blown as if they have won some great victory. He turns back, walking away with a fixed smile that covers his frustration at being denied yet another confrontation.

She should feel relieved.

 

The whole army has to turn back on itself on the narrow path. The vanguard led by Nolofinwë now takes the rear, waiting for the battalions in front of them to walk back to the plains while the flutes and the brass fill the surrounding valleys with marching songs.

She should be happy to go.

And yet, she feels like something is _wrong_ ; calling to her, awakening the foreshadowing she overlooked to follow Fëanaro. She feels like she will leave something precious and essential behind if she starts moving with the slow ribbon of tattered clothes and elves dripping down the mountain to the plains. When Nolofinwë starts forward, she alone remains.

They are going in the wrong direction.

Alone she turns to a path narrower and more perilous than the road, leaving her horse at the door. She hears Nolofinwë calling after her, then fast steps as Findekano rushes after her.

Later, they will ask her how she knew; and with a tight throat, she will answer that a mother _knows_ this kind of things.

Nerdanel says nothing when Findekano shouts in delight and horror both. She says nothing when Nolofinwë sends a runner to fetch Tyelkormo. The realization empties her lungs of air.

Her son is alive.

Her son is alive and _they can save him_.

 

***

Unless they cannot.

Findekano tries to climb the cliff, but the wall is so smooth and Maitimo hung so high that it is soon obvious he will not reach him; by the time Tyelkormo and Aikanaro arrive, Findekano failed for the fourth time to climb even a third of the height, and all of those who tried to go after him to set nails and ropes into the rock managed only to bend their tools.

When Tyelkormo himself goes no higher, they all hear the plea for a merciful death.

Aikanaro does not have the time to finish stringing his bow before Tyelkormo  launches himself on him to grab the weapon; soon the only thing keeping them from strangling each other’s is Nolofinwë’s body in the middle, great shouts drowning any last words Maitimo could have uttered.

And, in the middle of the storm, Findekano prays on his knees, a song of wind and mercy on his lips.

Namo Mandos proclaimed no prayer would cross the mountains; but Manwë stands atop them, and Nerdanel is not as strongly set against him as her husband, so she sinks to her nephews’ side and weaves her voice with his.

The song from Findekano is of clear skies and hope; from Nerdanel of faith and love, and soon they are joined by Nolofinwë’s anger against the enemy and Aikanaro’s will for revenge and hundreds more, until the voices of the Noldor drown the brass and echo with Manwë’s name right at Morgoth’s door, calling for the winds and feathers to strike him at least.

Nerdanel did not expect the thunder of the eagle’s wings.

She did not expect Fëanaro’s armor to be _that_ inconvenient to climb on a giant eagle either.

 

***

 

She sings a song of metal and fire, a song heard long ago on her father’s knees; but the manacle does not break. It grows tighter and tighter until no amount of bravery can keep the tears out of her son’s eyes.  

When Fingon unsheathes his dagger to cut, nothing can keep them out of hers.

 

***

She is watching from the back of the eagle flying westward, Maitimo trembling in the folds of Fingon's and Tyelkormo's cloaks. Shouts and cheers rise from the ground to follow them. 

And the doors of Angband, at least, swing open.

 


End file.
